The Greatest Love Of All
by Mr Sinister
Summary: Sinister returns to claim a debt Betsy Braddock owes him, and he goes straight for Betsy's daughter Rebecca to get it.
1. Default Chapter

**__**

**_The Greatest Love Of All_**

**_Part One_**

   "Catch me if you can, corn-fed!" 

   Rebecca's voice rings out across the lawn of the Xavier Estate, before she accelerates from a standing start and begins her customary vaulting, flipping and twisting, her body flexing and uncoiling like a freshly-oiled spring. Above her, the distinctive chemical tang of Sam Guthrie's personal "blast field" hangs heavy in the air as he soars overhead, his flight suit encased by a golden glow of energy. It trails off into the distance almost as far as I can see – and I can see a long way. Having almost avian eyes means I can see a lot farther than even Wolverine can (it's one of the benefits of being a literal angel, along with hollow bones, dense muscles, and a little pinch of super-strength). Thanks to that extended field of vision, I can see Sam easily turning lazy corkscrews along his flight path, as if he has no doubt about how this encounter is going to end. Apparently those years as leader of X-Force have given him a confidence that is hard to discredit. 

   I put down the book I was reading, and then turn my full attention to the high-speed ballet the two of them are putting on, fascinated by how both of them seem so utterly and completely absorbed into what they're each doing. I'm sure Rebecca knows that I'm watching her, but she doesn't let it show – her movements are as controlled and focused as they almost always are; there is no wasted motion where she is concerned. For his part, Sam is always alert, watching Rebecca with his keen brown eyes even as he accelerates in front of her. His head follows her every move, while his body automatically makes course corrections to compensate. The air behind him wavers slightly as it is superheated by his blast field, creating an effect that is not usually seen in upstate Westchester. It makes me think more of Johannesburg than of New York – and that feeling is reinforced when the rippling heat wafts across my face, a hot, dry wind that hurts my eyes. I turn my head momentarily until the heat has disappeared, and then return my attention to my daughter, who by now has stopped moving. She stands perfectly still, apparently braced for impact. I can see the grin on Sam's face as he realises what she's doing, and then he alights on the ground in front of her, setting his feet gently down on the thick grass. He waves his finger at her disparagingly as the last traces of his blast field evaporate, and then shakes his head as if he is scolding an unruly schoolchild. His expression piques my curiosity, and I push myself to my feet and walk over to where the two young mutants are standing. 

   "How did you know when to stop?" Rebecca is asking Sam as I arrive within earshot. 

   Sam grins. "You think you're the first person to ever think about makin' me knock myself out that way?" he says rhetorically, scratching his left sideburn with two fingertips. "If I had a nickel for every time some bad guy's tried to do that to me, I'd be able to buy this mansion twice over. Hell, it even worked sometimes, too." He laughs, before he sees me approaching, book in hand. "Hey, Mr Worthington," he says respectfully, taking a few steps back from Rebecca as he does so. "I was just, uh… teachin' your daughter some combat techniques."

   That makes me laugh, despite myself. "Relax, Sam. I saw the whole thing – you're in the clear." I gesture towards the tree where I had been reading, and tap my book with my free hand. "Rebecca knew I was there – I'm sorry if you didn't. I honestly didn't mean to startle you like that, I promise."

   Rebecca nods, grinning. "Yeah, Dad's like that. Good intentions, but no tact or subtlety." She rolls her eyes. "I guess I should've told you he was there, too, but I didn't see the need – he wasn't exactly getting in the way, and I could tell he didn't want to, either, so I left him alone."

   "That's good to know, I guess," Sam says, slightly nervously – which I find surprising, especially considering what kind of man Sam has grown into. He turns to me again and continues "Didn't want you to feel like I was intrudin' on your daughter's privacy or nothin', Mr Worthington, sir."

   I wave my hand dismissively. "Ah, don't worry about it, Sam. Really, I mean it – don't worry. You're one of the family, buddy – you don't have anything to worry about."

   Rebecca picks her towel off the grass, wipes her face off and says "I'm going for a shower, Sam. Then I'll see you for dinner, okay?" She wraps her towel around her neck and jogs off across the lawn. Both Sam and I watch her go, Sam's eyes lingering on her apparently without his realising it.

   "She's great, isn't she?" I say quietly, folding my arms across my chest and shifting my feet slightly so that the sun catches the maximum area of my wings. 

   "Yeah, that she is, Mr Worthington, sir," Sam says, turning back to me somewhat guiltily. I might not be a telepath, but I can tell what Sam is thinking (hey, I was his age once. I know what goes on in young guys' minds where pretty girls are concerned). "You sure do have a swell daughter there."

   I smile, pulling one side of my mouth up to show gleaming teeth, and laugh quietly. "Well, I should hope so – Betsy and I put a lot of effort into potty-training her, you know. We had her in diapers for months before she could use the bathroom herself." 

   Sam blinks in surprise, and dips his brows in confusion. "But… but I thought she was never that young…" he says in a puzzled tone, scratching his temple and looking like a little boy before his first spelling bee.

   "No, she was never that young," I reassure him, laying a hand on his forearm, and squeezing gently. "Sometimes it seems like we've been at this whole deal for years, though. I used to think that not having to deal with poopy diapers and teething troubles would be a blessing – boy, did I ever get _that one wrong. At least babies don't keep asking you if they can borrow the car, or stay in their room for hours on end, listening to the same damn Nirvana CD over and over again, when you tell them they can't get their nose pierced." I smile ruefully and stretch my wings, easing out a few last lingering cramps in my flight muscles. "Yeah, sometimes having Becca as a baby seems like a really good idea."_

   Sam laughs uneasily, touching the nape of his neck with a quick, nervous movement of his hand, before he takes a deep breath and blurts "Um, Mr Worthington, sir? I was just wonderin', you know, if I could take your daughter out on Saturday night? Just to the movies an' dinner, you understand, nothin' more." He gulps, as if he's terrified of what I'm going to say next (which surprises me, frankly. Sam's a lot braver than he lets on). "I'd be a perfect gentleman, sir. She'd be safer'n all the gold in Fort Knox, I promise."

   _Time to milk the "overbearing dad" routine for all it's worth, I think wickedly. Standing to my full height, my wings towering over Sam like a pair of hanging judges, I step closer to him so that we are eye to eye, our chests just a few centimetres apart. I curl my lip, as if I'm horrified at the very idea of what Sam's suggesting, and say, in a sibilant whisper __"What?"_

   Sam swallows nervously again. "I… I asked you if I could take Rebecca out to the movies on Saturday night, sir," he says quietly, clearly taken aback by my abrupt change in attitude… just as I planned.

   "You… _do realise that if I let you do this, and Rebecca comes home and tells me you mistreated her in __any way, I will not let you get away with it, don't you? I will __take you down, boy. I mean that," I snarl, in such a way that anybody watching would know instantly that I was putting it on. However, Sam is already so worked up that he buys it totally, and takes a few steps backwards, as if he is expecting me to hit him in the face with my wings at any moment. I let him stew for a second or two before my angry expression fades into a wide smile. "Sorry, Sam," I say, immediately. "I just couldn't resist. It's the first time anybody's asked me for permission to date my daughter, and I had to try that out just the one time."_

   "Oh." Sam sounds unconvinced, and keeps his distance, just to be safe. "So… I _can take her out?"_

   "Sure, Sam, go ahead – but I'd ask her first, if I were you. She _is an adult, after all. She doesn't need me, or Betsy, to chaperone her right now." I shrug briefly. "Just make sure you bring her back in one piece, all right? Or I __will stand up for my little girl." I incline my head forwards slightly, and point a cocked index finger at him to underline my point. "And I really __do mean that."_

   "You can count on me, Mr Worthington, sir," Sam says, his face lighting up with an almost teenaged excitement. "I'll treat her like she was royalty, no question."

   That makes me smile. "You better," I tell him with a slightly more light-hearted expression. "And please, Sam, stop calling me 'Mr Worthington, sir'; I get enough of that at work as it is. I don't need it at home, too. Just call me 'Warren' – or, if you must, call me 'Wings'. Just _please don't talk to me like I'm paying your wages, okay?"_

   Sam shifts uncomfortably on his feet for a moment or two, before his face brightens and he says "If you say so… Warren," he says uncertainly, clearly still quite ill at ease with calling me by my first name. I suppose his down-home manners must be pretty hard to shrug off, even after living away from his mother and his kinfolk for so long. I think I'm going to have to make him feel a little more comfortable about doing it, so I nudge him playfully in the ribs with a loosely-balled fist.

   "Attaboy," I say encouragingly, giving him my best and most disarming grin. "That's more like it. I'm telling you, Sam, you don't need to feel like you have to talk up to me; we're all equals in this house." I lay my hands on his shoulders and give him an encouraging look. "All right?" 

   Sam takes a deep breath and nods very slightly. "I gotcha," he says softly, before he manages to crack a smile and ask in a slightly stronger voice "So what kind of flowers should I get her?"

   "Ask her mother, Sam," I say, slightly embarrassed by my inability to answer the question – which I suppose Sam could think of as his own unique method of paying me back for my actions earlier. "I have absolutely no idea – although red roses always seemed to work for a first date, where I was concerned." Sam laughs, displaying a deeper and more relaxed expression of amusement than he would have been capable of a few minutes ago.

   "Yeah, but with all due respect, I ain't you," he replies, with a broad grin crossing his lightly-tanned features. "Maybe I _will ask Rebecca's momma, just to be on the safe side."_

   I laugh, prodding Sam gently in the ribs again. "Good idea, Sam. Best to cover all your bases before you try hitting that home run, right?"

   "Guess so," Sam replies. "I'll see you round, sir – uh, Warren."

   "That's my boy," I say, touching my brow with a fingertip. "Keep thinking like that and you'll get a long way in life, I promise. Take care, Sam." I turn and wander nonchalantly away from him, towards the tennis courts on the other side of the mansion's grounds. I can hear Scott and Jean playing a fast game in the court closest to me, Scott's grunts of exertion clearly meaning that he is having the worst of it. As I near the court, I can see that Scott's t-shirt is soaked with sweat and his legs are twitching with exhaustion. "Hey, Scooter, don't you think you ought to just throw in the towel?" I call to him as soon as I'm in shouting range. Scott turns and I can see that his special sports goggles are steamed with perspiration also. Jean, for her part looks mostly untroubled, her hair still all contained in the ponytail that hangs between her shoulders, and her clothes relatively dry.

   "Don't push it, Warren," Scott tells me breathlessly. "It's not my fault Jean's been using her powers to influence my game." As she hears that, Jean puts her hands on her hips indignantly, her racket still clutched in her right fist.

   "I beg your pardon?" she asks, incredulous. "I have _not been using my powers. It's not my fault if you can't play tennis, Scott."_

   Scott waves her quiet with a flick of his wrist. "Ah, I'm sorry, Jean. I'm just out of practice, that's all." He assumes a receiving stance, ready to return Jean's serve.

   "Aw, don't be like that, pookie," Jean says, chuckling. "There's no shame in admitting I'm better than you." She winks at me. "I think it's his male ego refusing to be beaten by somebody with cooties, don't you, Warren?"

   "Sounds like it to me," I tell her, ignoring the look of betrayal that Scott gives me. "Just like when we were in school. Couldn't take being beaten by the only girl in class, could you, Scooter?"

   Scott looks at the sky. "Why do you do this to me, Lord?" he asks, throwing his hands out to his sides. "What did I do to deserve friends like these?"

   "Worked your ass off and generally been a great, stand-up kinda guy?" I offer, constructively, before I enter the court and throw him the towel that was resting by the side of the net. "Here – you look like you could use that, buddy."

   "Thanks, Warren," Scott says gratefully, rubbing the towel over the sweat-soaked skin of his face and neck, after picking up the medium-sized bottle that had been lying against the wall of the court and liberally pouring some fresh water over his head. "Wow. I guess I really _am out of practice. I __never sweat this much." He laughs, adjusting his goggles slightly and then trading them for his regular glasses. "I think I need a drink. You coming, Jean – I could make you one of my patented Summers milkshakes, if you'd like one?" He throws her the other towel at the base of the net, which she catches telekinetically and then rubs delicately over her face and hands, soaking up the beaded sweat at her hairline and on her palms. Scott passes her the water bottle, and she runs a delicate stream of water over her face, before wiping her wet hands on her shorts and exhaling gently._

   "Man, I really, truly need a shower," she says, ruffling her hair out a little before she turns to Scott. "But before I do, Scott – yes, a Summers milkshake would be… heaven, thank you."

   Scott grins, and puts his racquet back in the long, heavy sports bag that was nestled near the gat of the court. "Great. Better get to the kitchen before the others steal all the ingredients – I think I saw Hank nosing around the last of the ice cream this morning… and you know what he's like. I think he wants to get revenge on you for stealing those candy bars."

   Jean laughs and knots her damp hair into a loose ponytail, before picking up her kit bag and walking towards the door of the court. "Hank's not the vindictive type, guys. He wouldn't do that to me. Well, maybe he'd take some of my clothes and cover them in fur, but that'd be as far as it went. He knows better than to do anything worse to the person who knows where he keeps his fur trimmer, after all." She holds her hands up, waggling her fingers in a villainous kind of way, and twists her face into a cackling caricature of itself. "He and Bobby aren't the only one who can pull practical jokes, you know…"

*

   The three of us reach the mansion's kitchen after a roundabout stroll through the grounds, watching the visiting Rogue and her girlfriend Jenny playing a game of catch with a football (I think Rogue overstepped the boundaries of the game when she intercepted a wide pass by flying to stop the ball. At least that was the impression I got, considering Jenny's reaction…), and seeing the visiting Jubilee playing tag with Logan, Bobby, Paige (who also asked to stay for a little while longer when the rest of the Gen X kids left for Massachusetts), and Remy. Remy still cast a few lingering glances towards Rogue now and then, and Jean winced once or twice when his pain became a little too much to bear – which is probably why Rogue is only staying for a couple of days until she and Jenny can get going again.

   As we enter the kitchen, I say "And here I thought Betsy and I had a screwed-up relationship…"

   Jean nods, understanding my implicit statement immediately. "Yes, it's been really tough for Remy these last couple of weeks. Rogue wouldn't even have come back so soon if she and Jenny hadn't needed a place to stop over until they can move on again."

   "Where are they supposed to be going _to?" Scott asks, perhaps reasonably. Jean shrugs._

   "Rogue doesn't seem to know," she replies. "She said that she and Jenny are just having a bit of a road trip so that they can see some of the country together. She thought they'd eventually wind up in California or somewhere like that before they came back for good." She exhales audibly, puffing her cheeks out for a second or two. "She also told me that she wanted Jenny to see Caldecott County, Mississippi."

   "Wow," I say, genuinely surprised. "I'd have thought Rogue would've wanted to keep away from there, considering what she's been through."

   Jean pulls her mouth into a thin line for a second or two, and raises her eyebrows. "Me too, but Rogue apparently is treating this whole deal like a fresh start. You know, putting a line under everything that happened before, and starting again. Can't blame her, myself – especially after all that's happened between her and Remy."

   "I guess not," I concede. "I know I'd feel that way in her position."

   Before Jean can reply, Rebecca comes bounding into the kitchen with a broad smile on her face. "Hi, Dad," she says with a grin, before throwing her arms around me and hugging me enthusiastically. "Thanks for saying what you said to Sam."

   "No problem," I say, slightly taken aback. "I take it this means you have a date?"

   "Saturday night." Rebecca pulls back from me and clasps her hands together. "He's going to take me to see _Minority Report."_

   "Wow. He's still as romantic as ever, I see," I reply with a gentle touch of sarcasm. "Surely he'd be better off taking you to, I dunno, a Sandra Bullock movie?"

   Rebecca scoffs at me. "Dad, don't be such a square. Don't you know I hate Sandra Bullock?" She inclines her head towards Jean and Scott and points her thumb at me dismissively. "See what I have to put up with? I –" Abruptly, she stops in mid-sentence, her words catching raggedly in her throat and her eyes rolling up inside her head, showing virtually nothing of her pupils. She gurgles in panic wordlessly, a small line of spittle flecking her chin as her legs fold underneath her and she collapses on the floor, spasms wracking her body. Jean clutches her forehead in agony as Rebecca thrashes on the floor of the kitchen.

   "It hurts," she moans. "It _hurts – she's in so much pain."_

   "What's wrong with her, Jean?" I ask, frantically, as I kneel down beside Rebecca's jerking form and try to steady her body so that she doesn't hurt herself on anything. "Can you tell?"

   "No," Jean gasps. "We have to get Hank."

   "I'm on it," Scott says immediately, his leadership abilities kicking in over his understandable concern for his daughter. "Warren, you contact Betsy."

   "Done," I say, after a moment or two, my thoughts transmitted over a split-second's worth of contact through the psychic rapport that Betsy and I share. "She said she was on her way anyway – she felt something was wrong, even from Salem." 

   "Good," Scott says, before he stabs the intercom button and yells for Hank to get up to the kitchen, double-time. Hank responds in a moment or two, telling us to keep her comfortable until he can get up from the med-lab. Rebecca's limp hand inadvertently flaps at me and I grip it tightly, squeezing her perfect, delicate fingers in my own.

   "I'm here, sweetie. Daddy's here. You're going to be all right, okay, Rebecca? You're going to be all right. Hank's coming, baby. Hank's coming. You're going to be fine." I stroke her forehead gently, my fingers feeling a fine sheen of sweat covering her skin already. "Don't you die on me, Rebecca. Don't you die, you hear me?"

   Rebecca gurgles again, and in that sound I can hear her fear and her terror at what's happening to her.

   I've never felt so helpless.


	2. The Greatest Love Of All, Chapter Two

**_The Greatest Love Of All_**

**_Part Two_**

   Rebecca lies unconscious on a bed in the med-lab, her motionless body covered by a stiff starched sheet and her pulse constantly checked by a heart-monitor. Its monotonous bleeping is the only sound that fills the room, even though there are four people besides Rebecca in the ward with her. Betsy sits in the chair closest to Rebecca's bed, her hand entwined with our daughter's unmoving fingers and her head bowed hopelessly. I am stood behind her, silently, my hands gently resting on her shoulders, as if to impart some measure of strength to my wife in her grief. Scott and Jean are here, too, but they're saying nothing either. Instead, the two of them are simply holding hands and watching Rebecca, concern flowing off the two of them in almost physical waves. It is Betsy who inadvertently breaks the silence, a small, sorrowful moan escaping from her lips against her will. Then, she dabs delicately at her eyes with her handkerchief as the tears she has been fighting against finally break her resolve; I can feel her pain surge uncontrollably along our link at that moment, and it feels as if I am being dragged across broken glass. I kneel down beside Betsy and put my arms around her slowly: a small gesture, but a welcome one, apparently – Betsy touches my arm with her free hand and then buries her face in my chest, crying with small, juddering sobs against my body. She weeps unreservedly, her body suddenly feeling small and delicate against my chest, and all I feel I can do is hold her and whisper to her that everything is going to be all right. 

   "Why did this have to happen to her?" she whispers shakily, anger and grief clearly audible in her cracked voice. "What did she do to deserve this?"

   "I don't know," I say, truthfully – and yet painfully aware, at the same time, that that is nothing that even resembles an adequate answer. "I really don't know."

   At that moment, the door to the ward opens and Hank steps through from the adjoining study area of the med-lab, a clipboard and pen clutched in his paws, and a long white lab coat covering his fur. He walks slowly up to us, checking off various things with a clawed index finger and then ticking them with a quick flourish of his pen. Even from this distance, I can see that whatever he has to tell us is not going to be good – his expression alone gives that away. As he nears us, he smiles faintly and says "Hello, Betsy," before laying a hand gently on her shoulder and squeezing gently, taking care to keep his claws from hurting her. "How are you feeling?"

   Betsy wipes her eyes delicately with her handkerchief and takes a deep breath before replying. "As good as can be expected, Hank," she says in a small, hoarse voice, before almost instantly continuing "How's Rebecca?" Hank's face falls even further, and he adjusts his half-moon glasses awkwardly before putting his pen back into the breast pocket of his lab coat, and pulling up a spare chair.

   "There's no easy way to say this, Betsy –" he begins, slowly, before Betsy cuts him off with a steely glare.

   "_Please, Doctor," she says, more sharply and forcefully than she's been ever since Rebecca was brought down here, "don't make this any more difficult than it already is. Just… be straight with me. Please." She takes another deep breath, and folds one of her hands in her lap, gripping my right palm with the other. Hank raises his brows and glances over his clipboard again, tracing something with the claw of his index finger. He raises his hand to his face for a moment, drawing his finger and thumb up and down the length of his finely-furred nose, and then he exhales, his barrel chest contracting as air expels itself audibly through his lips._

   "My test results are… not good," he begins, his normally boisterous voice leeched of all its usual levity. "While Rebecca seems more than fine physically, her EEG shows distressing indications that something is deeply wrong with your daughter's brain. Her synaptic patterns, and the neural pathways carrying those patterns, are degrading alarmingly swiftly, and I have very little idea of what's causing it. If the degradation is not stopped, and stopped _quickly, Rebecca will be brain-dead within the next twelve hours – and will possibly be unable to breathe for herself twelve hours after that, if the decay from her cerebellum extends to her brainstem as quickly as it's spreading now."_

   Betsy puts a hand across her mouth, stunned, and I can feel the sting of her redoubled agony lashing against my mind, like a tidal wave of molten lava. "No," she says, her voice crushed with the weight of the realisation that our daughter is dying, before it rises to an enraged shriek. "No, no, no, _no! That's not __possible! You're a fucking __doctor, Hank__ – you're __supposed to be able to make people __better! You have to __help her! __Do something! " Instantly furious, she almost throws herself at Hank, her fists balled and her face contorted with anger, but I manage to grab a hold of her and draw her to me before she can do any damage – to Hank or to herself. She thrashes against me, screaming with pain and hate and rage as renewed tears flow down her cheeks in hot, salty rivers, until she simply collapses to the floor, her energy completely spent. "Please help her…" she whimpers through muted sobs. Once more, I kneel beside her and gently encircle her with my arms, trying desperately to give her something to hold onto now that her – __our – whole world has been turned brutally inside out. She clings to me, and I to her, as if there is nothing else in the room. It hurts us both so deeply that our psychic rapport is alive with pain, both my own and that of Betsy. It flows between and back to each of us, as if it is set on a self-repeating loop. It's all I can do to simply keep my arms around my wife and hold her until the initial white-hot mutual expression of our sorrows has passed, and we are both able to feel ourselves through the link again. I can still feel her tears coursing down her cheeks again, just as she can feel mine, but beyond that we can each feel the other's deep concern for our daughter's well-being. It's less painful to focus on that, so that's what we try to do; for a short time, at least._

   After a little while Scott gets up from his seat and says, slightly shakily, "Hank… is there anything more you can tell us about what's happening to Rebecca?"

   Hank is about to reply when Betsy looks up at the two of them with her red-rimmed eyes and says, her tone cold as liquid nitrogen, "It was Sinister, Scott – _he did this to her, I know it. This is his way of disposing of a failed experiment and telling us that he still owns her, all at the same time." She wipes at her eyes again, and forces herself to her feet, running her hands through her hair and composing herself as best she can. Her legs are still a little shaky, but she is able to stand again, and she refuses my offer of assistance with a wan smile. Moving towards our daughter, she lays a hand gently across Rebecca's brow and strokes her forehead. "You know, I really thought we'd have longer than this," she whispers, addressing Rebecca more than anybody else. "I'm not going to give up on you, Rebecca. I mean that." She leans forward and kisses Rebecca tenderly on the cheek, causing one of her tears to splash on Rebecca's pale, unmoving face. Betsy reaches out with her handkerchief, and softly brushes it away with a delicate movement of her hands. "I love you, button." Then, after she has dabbed at her eyes, she turns to Hank and says "Can you give me a little privacy, please, Hank? I want to do a telepathic scan of Rebecca's mind – a really in-depth scan."_

   Hank blinks in confusion. "Why? For what purpose?"

   "Becca is a psychic," Betsy replies, a small measure of confidence returning to her voice as she finds some familiar territory. "If there's something wrong with her mind, it should be more than just slightly visible on the astral plane. Perhaps I can do something to help her while I'm there." She gives Hank a pleading look. "_Please, Hank. I can't just sit here and do __nothing while my daughter is dying right in front of me." Jean coughs and shifts in her seat, finally breaking her silence before she walks over to where Betsy is sitting, her red hair wavering slightly in the currents provided by the med-lab's air-conditioning. She sits opposite Betsy and touches Rebecca's brow with her fingertips, bowing her head a touch before she speaks properly._

   "I'll help you if you want me to, Betsy," she says in a quiet tone. "I have _some experience in this field, after all." She smiles half-heartedly, and adjusts Rebecca's sheets with her free hand, before she reaches across and holds Betsy's slack fingers in her own. "If you need Scott or me, we'll be right here. You can count on us." Scott nods in confirmation and wraps his own hand around Jean's._

   "You bet your life you can count on us," he says, his confident, strong voice becoming the most commanding thing in the whole med-lab without much effort on his part. He embraces Betsy gently, and then lifts her chin up with his free hand. "You can bet on that, kiddo. I promise."  

   Betsy pulls her lips up in a weak reply, and then grips Jean's hand as strongly as she can manage. "Thank you, Jean," she rasps. "That means a lot, it really does." Then, she pauses and turns her gaze on the floor of the med-lab. "I appreciate what you want to do for me, I honestly do, but…" and she takes a deep breath, "if you're going to help me do this, then I'll need you out here, with Hank. I'll need someone to watch my progress from outside." Then she looks up at me. "Warren, I'm going to need your help, too."

   "Name it," I say, without hesitation. 

   "I need you to help me give Rebecca something to hold onto," Betsy begins calmly. "If she has an anchor, something that she can grab hold of, then she's less likely to just give up and let go. And… and even if you and I can't do anything for her, I won't let her die without giving her the chance to say goodbye to her daddy." That gives me pause for thought, and I nod towards Scott, my wings following my movement for a moment or two and dipping in front of the light focused on Rebecca's bed.

   "What about Scott?" I say. "He's Rebecca's father too – in fact, he's got more of a claim on that title than I do. Surely he should be able to see what's happening to her as well?" Betsy is about to reply when Scott steps forwards and gestures towards Rebecca's prone body, his glasses reflecting some of the sterile white glare from the med-lab's ceiling lights with his every word. 

   "Go on, Warren," he says quietly. "Go help your little girl."

   "You sure, Scott?" I give my best friend a questioning look, and then twist in my seat so that I can get a better view of him. "I mean, she's your kid too."

   Scott shakes his head. "I'm just 'Uncle Scott' to her now, remember? She loves me, sure, but that doesn't make me what you are to her. She needs her dad, buddy, and that means you." He smiles a thin, painful smile that tells me more than I need to know about how he's feeling, and then points towards Rebecca once again. "Go on. We'll be here if you need us." Touching me gently on the shoulder, he continues "I got your back, pal. I promise. I got Rebecca's back."

   "If you're sure," I say, uncertainly.

   "I'm sure." Scott embraces me for a moment, resting his chin on my shoulder. "Bring her back in one piece, Warren."

*

   Betsy and I are sat alone in the med-lab, next to Rebecca. We're opposite one another, leaning forward in our chairs so that Betsy can put both of her hands on my face, her fingers resting near my eyes, on my cheeks and near my mouth. She has closed her eyes, murmuring softly to herself something which I think is a prayer of some kind, and she has extended her legs underneath my seat. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Hank, Scott and Jean watching the two of us from behind a plate-glass window, and I give the three of them a brief thumbs-up to let them know that everything is proceeding according to plan, before Betsy tells me to concentrate.

   "Close your eyes, Warren," she says in a soft voice. "Close your eyes, and don't open them again until I tell you to." Then, she lays her forehead against mine, and I can feel my mind being drawn from my body and floating out into mid-air. No matter how many times she does this, I'll never get used to it. It feels so weird and strange, so utterly different to the way I usually fly, that my mind just won't accept it. It doesn't mean I won't endure it, though. In situations like this, I don't have much of a choice. "Open your eyes," comes Betsy's voice again, and I open my eyes as soon as I feel my mind settling gently onto firm ground again.

   What greets me is beautiful and terrible all at once. The representation of Rebecca's mind is the same as the last time I visited it – high, jagged mountains, bleached skies and angular clouds are all present – but everything seems on the verge of collapse. The mountains are surrounded by shattered fragments that have obviously fallen from their peaks, and the clouds rumble ominously, occasionally dropping showers of needle-like ice shards that have pictures of past events painted on their sides – and as the ice fragments hit the ground, they shatter, and I can feel each and every memory dying as they do so. The flat desert plain is also present, although a black substance is creeping inexorably over it, from what I think is the east. The black gunk bubbles and gurgles occasionally, and disgorges small creeping insects with vicious snapping jaws, which crawl ahead of their parent and burrow into the sandy ground, small winding trails in the dirt the only trace of them once they have disappeared underground. 

   And emblazoned on every surface that is not affected by the black slime are two words, repeated over and over again like a remorseless, endless Morse code message: _Help me._

   Betsy looks around herself in horror and then glances at me with eyes that show me how terribly afraid she is. "What's he done to her, Warren?" she asks, the tone of her voice indicating that she had no idea this was what she was going to find.

   "Maybe we can ask him ourselves," I say grimly, pointing towards the north. Ahead of me, I can see Rebecca standing mesmerised by a taller figure, whose voluminous cape has been sliced into numerous strips, and who is clad in a combination of royal blue and blood red body armour. Rebecca is perfectly motionless, while the other figure is quite animated. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he was actually enjoying this… which wouldn't surprise me one bit. The sick white-faced bastard cuts people up on a daily basis – why would this be any different?

   Around us, several more pieces of jagged rock crash to the ground, amidst far-too-numerous chunks of broken ice. "We have to hurry," Betsy says, putting a hand to her forehead. "Rebecca's mind is coming apart at the seams."

   "No kidding," I mutter, as the echoes of Rebecca's pain splash against my mind. Sprinting towards the figures in the distance, followed closely by Betsy, I watch the two shapes grow and gain definition with each passing step. Sinister's face is contorted with a hideous glee, and I can hear his broken-glass laughter beginning to reverberate all around us.

   "Why, Rebecca, I do believe we have guests," Sinister says as he notices the two of us, seemingly from everywhere at once. Almost instantly, he and Rebecca are a few hundred metres closer within the space of an eye-blink. "Are you coming to join the festivities, Ms Braddock?" he asks Betsy. "I'm terribly sorry… you're too late. All the tickets have been sold. Do try again next week." He chuckles again, shrugging expansively before examining his fingernails in a bored fashion. "You don't have a chance of saving her, you arrogant idiots. Don't you realise what is happening here? Rebecca did not return to me of her own free will, so I am terminating her service. Permanently." He bares his mouthful of fanged teeth in a hideous leer, and laughs once more. "I'm sure your own Doctor McCoy has outlined the prognosis for your dear child, has he not?" Wasting little more time, he returns his attention to the mesmerised Rebecca, and touches her chin surprisingly tenderly. "She's a _very pretty girl, isn't she? Such a shame she's going to die such a tragic and needless death… ah, well. Needs must, I suppose. I have my replacement, so I don't particularly care if this flawed prototype dies." He spreads his hands and bows shallowly from the waist in a genteel fashion. "As I told her before, evolution is a harsh mistress… she waits for no man, beast __or clone."_

   "How are you doing this?" Betsy asks him, her hands curled into fists and her body tensed to spring at him, her psionic armour forming from thin air and solidifying around her body, giving her instant protection from anything Sinister might throw at her. "_Why are you doing this?"_

   Sinister smiles again, and once more strokes Rebecca's face with his chalk-white fingers. "Rebecca is obsolete – a loose end I needed to tie up. She, like all my Marauders, is completely at my mercy. Like the others, she has certain… fail-safes… designed into her brain and nervous system – fail-safes which allow me to cause their bodies to shut down totally, whenever they become useless to me. As Rebecca has now."

   That spurs me to speak. "Rebecca's been living with her mom for months now – you could have killed her any time before today. Why didn't you?"

   Sinister's face twists demonically, and his laughter is tinged with the distinct flavour of sadism. "My dear boy, I didn't kill her before now because I knew that Scott would be more thoroughly affected by her death, if I let her worm her innocent little way into that oh-so-sympathetic bleeding heart of his." As he finishes speaking, I can sense Betsy's mounting anger at his words, her rage like a solar flare across the back of my mind. She's not going to be able to hold herself back much longer… "Scott knows that I have his best interests at heart. Rebecca is a means to an end, my boy, nothing more –"

   _"Shut up!" Betsy screams abruptly, her temper finally snapping. "My daughter is a __human being, not an experiment you can just throw away when you're __bored with it!" Enraged, she hurls herself at Sinister, who bats her away with a casual flick of his wrist. Betsy flies away from him, sprawling into the cracked ground and sending up puffs of disintegrating memories._

   "I'm sorry, my dear, but that's _exactly what she is. You may harbour some kind of puerile emotional connection to her, but that's irrelevant. Rebecca is dying, and you can't do anything to save her. She is __mine." He gestures at Rebecca's motionless body. __"Watch." Leaning close to Rebecca's ear, he whispers something into it, grinning horribly all the while._

   Rebecca's eyes finally show signs of life, and she says, in a flat monotone, "I hate you, Mummy. I'm going to kill you." When she has finished speaking, Sinister spreads his hands again and laughs mockingly as Betsy, who is still trying to pick herself up.

   "Do you see, Ms Braddock?" he asks, taunting her with his clipped, refined tones. "Do you see what she is now? Her mind is little more than a puppet. Soon she won't even be able to speak to you. Look." He points at the landscape around us. The black sludge we saw earlier is making faster and faster progress across the desert, and is even spreading across the skyline as well. Seeing that our time is running out, I turn back towards Rebecca while Sinister is focused on Betsy, and take a few steps closer to her, holding out my hand hopelessly.

   "Rebecca?" I say, cautiously. "Rebecca, it's Daddy. Can you hear me?" As I say the words, Sinister looks at me through the corner of his eye, and a slow smile spreads across his face.

   "Well, well, well… En Sabah Nur's prodigal son is trying to do some good for my prodigal daughter. How oddly… appropriate." He sneers. "Foolish boy – did you think you had any chance of affecting Rebecca where your wife could not?" He gestures at me almost absently, and my mind explodes with pain, every shredded sinew of my psychic form feeling as if it is being pulled in the wrong direction. I try to move out of the way, but he has frozen my body in place. "You need telepathy here, my boy. Without it, you are somewhat… vulnerable, are you not?" Stepping closer to me, covering the distance between us in less than a moment, he looks me right in the face and locks his gaze with mine. I feel a terrible revulsion as each pupil-less sclera fixes me with a frightening glare. It occurs to me that this is the face countless mutants have seen before they are violated in the most hideous way possible, and that scares me a great deal. "Do you wish to die, Warren Worthington?" Sinister asks me in a hissing voice. "It's easy to arrange, believe me. Look." He nods towards an approaching tendril of the black sludge, and it hyper-extends itself so that he can pick it up. "This is what's causing Rebecca's body to shut down. If I touch you with it, you die too – just as slowly as she is." He holds it within an inch or so of my face. "Just one touch, Mr Worthington. Just one." He drops the tendril near my foot contemptuously, and then turns his back on me for a moment or two to look towards Betsy, who has been charging headlong towards him ever since she managed to stand again.

   "Give me my daughter back!" Betsy screams, her rage feeding back along our link and burning through the already strained fibres of my brain. Somehow, her rage gives me the ability to move again, and I don't waste the opportunity. Hurling myself towards Sinister's back, I throw my arms around his neck in a full-nelson.

   "Go get her, Betsy," I cry, feeling Sinister's prodigious strength fighting against my own. It's a battle I know I can't win – not here, anyway – so I urge Betsy to hurry again, shouting "Quickly!" with aching lungs.

   "Insolent child!" Sinister snarls, his voice rising for the first time since we found him here. "How _dare you lay your hands on me?"_

   "Easy, Doc," I say, holding onto the full-nelson with all my power – and still feeling him fight against me. "Maybe I should… draw you a diagram sometime?"

   Ignoring my words, Sinister simply oozes through my grip, his gelatinous body slipping away from me and reforming itself somewhere else entirely… but it is too late. My holding onto him gave Betsy enough time to get close to Rebecca. Before Sinister can do anything about it, Betsy puts a finger to her daughter's forehead, and a white-hot light shines through the whole landscape. When it fades, I can feel Rebecca's mind returning to somewhere approaching what it was before. I see Betsy and her daughter embracing briefly… and I see Sinister's face momentarily contorted in uncharacteristic rage, before it returns to its usual mask of superiority.

   "Very well, Ms Braddock," he says. "You may have your daughter… for the moment. The decay is nearing its final stage: if you do not escape now, you will die too. Is that truly what you want?" He gestures towards the approaching black slime, which is covering almost everything in sight by now, and is coming towards us more and more rapidly.

   Betsy hugs Rebecca to her, kissing her still slightly-spaced-out daughter tenderly on the forehead. "If I can't save her from that, Sinister, at least I saved her from you." She smiles forcefully. "Aim high, right?"

   Sinister grimaces disdainfully, and throws his hands up in disgust. "If you wish to die, that is no concern of mine. I shall simply erase your DNA records and mark you as unfit for resurrection, that's all." He raises his arms towards the black, gelid sky, and clenches his fists. As if they have been asked to deliver on cue, jagged purple thunderbolts lance down from what's left of the clouds and strike his body, drawing his essence away from our daughter's mind. It's consistent with his penchant for melodrama, but at least it gets him out of the picture for now.

   "Great," I say. "That's one problem down – all we have to do now is stop Rebecca from dying. Piece of cake."

   "Easier than you might think, Warren," Betsy calls to me from where she is standing. "Come here, quickly." Stepping away from the tendrils of black ooze that are encroaching on me, I take off and fly towards my wife, who is still clutching Rebecca to her as if she might slip away again. When I land next to my wife and daughter, Betsy takes hold of my hands and lays them on the back of Rebecca's skull, while she puts her palms on Rebecca's temples. "You and I are going to help Rebecca fight this off," she says quickly. "If we give her our strength, then she ought to be able to shake off this programming herself."

   "Whatever you're going to do, do it fast," I say, looking at the sky. "I don't think we've got much time." In response, Betsy closes her eyes, and I can feel her forging a psychic link between Rebecca, herself and me. I can feel Betsy imparting her telepathic power to Rebecca, so I try to follow suit by giving my daughter some of my willpower. I can feel her mind pulling itself back together slowly – too slowly. The black ooze is getting closer and closer by the minute, and we'll all be overwhelmed if we don't get the job done. I grip more tightly to Rebecca and try to urge her to heal herself faster. As I bow my head and shunt more of my will into Rebecca's skull, I catch a glimpse of the surrounding area.

   The ooze is retreating. _Slowly retreating, sure, but retreating anyway. "It's working," I say, ecstatically. "It's working!"_

   "Don't stop now," Betsy says in a strained voice, her teeth gritted. "Keep going. Or we'll never stop it totally…" Touching her forehead to Rebecca's, she sends our daughter a powerful pulse of psychic energy. I can feel it leave her mind and enter Rebecca's – so gently that it feels like a feathery kiss – but I can also feel that Betsy put a whole lot of herself into it – so much that I can instantly feel her fatigue.

   "We need to get Jean," I say, suddenly realising who we can use to tip the scales in our favour. "She can help us finish this."

   Betsy is too busy pouring more of herself into her daughter's body to respond, so I call Jean's name as loudly as I can, hoping that she can hear me. 

   In an instant or two (faster than I'd expected or hoped, in fact), the firebird image that signifies Jean's presence on the astral plane makes itself known, and Jean materialises close to us, her psychic form clothed in her version of Betsy's psionic armour. Looking around her, she observes the black ooze as it curls slowly back on itself in dark, boiling waves, and says "What happened here?"

   "Later," I tell her firmly. "Just… put your hands on Rebecca so we can help her stop it."

   Jean looks unconvinced, but she takes a few steps forward and touches Rebecca's skull with her fingertips. After a few moments of contact, she smiles and says "You don't need me, Warren."

   "What?" I say, incredulous. "What the hell is _that supposed to mean?"_

   "Look," Jean says, cryptically – cryptically, that is, until I realise what she is showing me: Rebecca is standing taller than before, and Betsy has taken her hands off her temples. My daughter turns to me, my hands slipping off her skull as she does so, and she smiles.

   "Thank you, Dad," she says in a voice that sounds as if she has just been through a war – which she has been, in a way. "Thank you." She closes her eyes for a moment, before opening them to release two golden beams of energy, which carve apart the black ooze, forcing it to retreat even faster and uncover more and more of the landscape of her mind. As she takes to the air, she calls "You can go, now." Betsy nods in agreement.

   "That sounds like a good idea." She touches my forehead again. "Close your eyes."

*

   Back in the med-lab, it is several hours before Rebecca is strong enough to sit up and be allowed visitors – and even then, it is restricted to family members only. Hank, as usual, is very happy to be able to fuss over a patient in the way that he does Rebecca, so he makes sure that he prolongs it as much as he can.

   "Thanks for coming after me," Rebecca whispers to me, as I sit with her in the ward, with Betsy sat on the other side of the bed, holding the box of chocolates that she managed to smuggle down here for Rebecca to indulge herself with.

   "Don't mention it, kid," I say nonchalantly, trying to hold back the undeniable relief that has been flooding through me ever since we saw the last of Rebecca's mind. "I'd have done the same thing for any baby girl of mine." I nudge her on the chin gently with my hand, and smile encouragingly at her. Then I decide to ask a question that has been niggling at me for a while now. "How'd you manage to do what you did?"

   "Do what? Clean up my mind?" Rebecca says. "Remember what I am, Dad. Sinister gave me the ability to deal with telepathic attacks – I could do the same, without even trying hard, if somebody like Jean tried to shut down my mind in the same way. Essex just made sure that if _he did it, I wouldn't be able to fight back." She taps her temple. "Wouldn't be much point in trying what he did if I could just throw him out of my mind, right?" She sighs. "I would have died for certain if you hadn't made him leave. Thank you for that, Dad – Mum."_

   "Don't mention it, button," Betsy tells her, touching Rebecca on her cheek. "It was the least I could do."

   "Oh." Rebecca looks downcast. "So you're not _really going to give me those chocolates, then?"_

   "Don't push it, Rebecca," Betsy says, before she leans forward and enfolds Rebecca in her arms. "I don't ever want to lose you again," she whispers. "I couldn't bear that."

   "Love you too, Mum," Rebecca replies softly, holding tightly to her mother. Then, looking over Betsy's shoulder, she smiles at me. "And you too, Dad."

   "Yeah, I think I got that. I love you too, squirt," I tell her, before I get off my chair and join my wife and daughter, the two most special people in my life, and hold them tightly to me. "Don't ever scare me like that again, okay?"

   Suddenly, there is a knock at the door of the ward, and Sam Guthrie pokes his head around the door. "Not intrudin', I hope?" he asks, tentatively. I beckon him through quickly.

   "Come on in, Sam," I say. "The more, the merrier." Sam's face lights up, and he steps around the door, holding up a large bunch of orchids – which in turn cause Rebecca's eyes to brighten significantly.

   "Just thought I'd get you those flowers your pa suggested I buy you," Sam says, kindly. "Maybe they'll brighten this old place up a little, huh?" He hands them to Rebecca, who holds them as if they're the greatest gift in the world.

   "Oh, Sam, they're beautiful!" she says, excitedly. "Thank you so much!"

   Sam shrugs bashfully. "Aw, weren't nothin' – just a little get-well gift for my favourite blonde telepath." He flushes immediately when he notices Betsy's blonde locks. "Joint favourite," he adds quickly, to which Betsy purses her lips and chuckles.

   "Relax, Sam. I shan't be offended if you like my daughter more than me. I _am a married woman, after all," she laughs, before she gets up and offers Sam her seat. "Warren and I will leave you two alone, Sam. See you later, Rebecca," she says, kissing our daughter on the cheek. "Don't let him take any liberties."_

   As we leave the room, Betsy links arms with me and says "He really likes her, doesn't he?"

   "You could tell that too, huh?" I say, sardonically. "He practically had it written all over his face."

   "I'm glad," Betsy replies, her voice a touch softer and lower than before. "Rebecca deserves something to be happy about. Especially after today."

   "Yeah, wasn't exactly the best example of a walk in the park, was it?" I draw Betsy to me and hug her. "She's okay now. She'll be fine."

   "What about the future, Warren?" Betsy asks, her voice filling with concern. "What if Sinister tries to do what he did to her again?"

   "I asked the Professor to take a look at Becca over the next few days," I say, gently. "He said he'll see if there's any way he can install some psychic shielding above what she already has, just as a safeguard. He asked me to ask you to assist him." I squeeze Betsy closer to me. "She'll be fine, Betsy. I promise."

   "We'll have to see," Betsy says. "I'm not going to take anything for granted. I know you wouldn't, either."

   Funny thing is, she's completely right… even with the Professor's help, I don't think I'll ever be completely sure that Rebecca's safe from that white-faced maniac. 

   Time will tell, I guess…


End file.
